Hold Out
by mxjoyride
Summary: Sami Zayn's feeling down after the Fatal Four Way match at NXT Takeover 2 and tries to make himself feel better. Solo story. Rated M for language, masturbation.


A/N: This did not at all turn out how I expected. That's cool though.

Soundtrack was mostly the album "Fantastic Planet" by Failure. Also contains some lines from "Ring the Alarm" by Tenor Saw.

Maybe you'll enjoy.

* * *

After it happened, all Sami felt was a sort of blank, impotent sadness. Something in the back of his mind nudged at him, faintly, and suggested that maybe he ought to be feeling something more about all of this, like he had before. He sighed at it, and after taking some time to catch his breath, he headed to the back.

Once again, he'd tried. And once again, he'd failed.

In the back there were hands on him, patting him on the back, squeezing his shoulder. He heard a din of encouraging voices that he could barely understand, all directed his way. It all felt like a giant wave crashing over his head. But somehow he managed to stay afloat over it, with a life jacket of engrained social graces.

He could blame luck. He could blame the match. He could blame Adrian. But he knew better.

He eventually made his way through the sea of bodies and went to where he'd put his things. He felt like all of that adrenaline was starting to settle in his stomach, nauseating him a bit, and making all the fatigue and soreness in his muscles suddenly quite apparent.

Ring the alarm, and not a sound is dying.

He wanted to kick something all of a sudden, but he just balled his hands into fists, dug his fingernails in, exhaled it all through gritted teeth. He didn't want to be there any longer.

He must have flipped through every song on his phone on the way home. None of them were what he needed. Every red light felt like an eternity. He couldn't stand his own smell.

The shower was so hot he felt his skin turning pink the moment the water hit him. He liked it that way. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Some of the tension in his muscles rattled free.

There were a million things he could have done differently.

He lathered up on autopilot, hardly aware of what he was doing. When he got to his cock, a dull pleasure glinted through him. The first thing that felt good since that match. It almost made him smile. When he got back under the water, the pressure felt like phantom hands all over him, pressing him down.

They were probably all out at that same fucking bar.

His hand drifted down to his cock again. Fingers curled around it tentatively. The pleasure of it felt a little bit sharper. Some faint echo of shame demanded his attention.

They were probably having a lot more fun than he was.

"Fuck it," he muttered.

His fist wrapped around his cock, stroking deliberately. He felt it slowly harden in his hand, the sensation rapidly sharpening. His lips parted slightly.

He wondered if he should be thinking of someone.

He gripped himself tightly. He stroked harder. His breath hitched a little.

He didn't know how long it had been since someone else had touched him like this.

He didn't care.

His hips started to move into his hand. The tiniest shuddering moan escaped him.

He wanted some kind of tangible proof that he was worthwhile, that this was all worth it, that he was enough, that he had done enough. He wanted his hair stroked. He wanted to be told he was a good boy. That was a little weird. He wanted to be pushed onto his knees. He wanted to be crushed into the ground. He wanted to taste dirt.

They were all having a lot more fun than he was.

He deserved every betrayal.

He stroked his cock furiously now, moaning softly into the motion. Tense pleasure glinted up and built in his belly. His balls started to tighten. He was so close he could taste it. He pulled his hand away and rested both hands on the tile wall of the shower.

He whimpered to himself.

Ring the alarm, and not a sound is suffering.

His body filled with a plaintive ache. He smiled. He breathed in steam until his lungs felt heavy. He pressed his forehead against the tile. He counted to ten.

He slowly grazed his palm along the underside of his cock, centimeter by centimeter, every movement feeling like the most exquisite torture. He rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand. He ran his finger along the head. He shuddered.

"Please," he whispered.

He felt his face flush. He gripped his cock again, squeezed it, tight enough to hurt just a little. The friction was incredible. His lower lip curled into his mouth. He stroked fast and hard. His breath was ragged. His other hand pulled at his hair. His knees felt weak. He bit down on his lip. He closed his eyes.

Phantom hands pushed him down. Phantom lips bruised him with kisses.

He wanted to be slapped in the face. He wanted to taste blood.

He bit his lip as hard as he could.

The sound of water crashed in his ears.

A guttural sound coursed through him, a dark wave, knocking him to his knees. He came in long, shaky spurts until he felt absolutely, blissfully drained. When he was finally done, he pressed his hands against the floor of the shower and looked down at the drain.

He chuckled.

He didn't know what he was praying for.


End file.
